The Man with the Golden Gun

Part One of the final novel

The secret service holds much that is kept secret even from very senior officers in the organization. Only M and his Chief of Staff know absolutely everything there is to know. The latter is responsible for keeping the Top Secret record known as The War Book so that, in the event of the death of both of them, the whole story, apart from what is available to individual Sections and Stations, would be available to their successors.

One thing that James Bond, for instance, didn't know, was the machinery at Headquarters for dealing with the public, whether friendly or otherwise--drunks, lunatics, bona fide applications to join the Service, and enemy agents with plans for penetration or even assassination.

On that cold, clear morning in November he was to see the careful cogwheels in motion.

The girl at the switchboard at the Ministry of Defense flicked the switch to Hold and said to her neighbor, "It's another nut who says he's James Bond. Even knows his code number. Says he wants to speak to M personally."

The senior girl shrugged. The switchboard had had quite a few such calls since, a year before, James Bond's death on a mission to Japan had been announced in the press. There had even been one pestiferous woman who, at every full moon, passed on messages from Bond from Uranus where it seemed he had got stuck while awaiting entry into heaven. She said, "Put him through to Liaison, Pat."

The Liaison Section was the first cog in the machine, the first sieve. The operator got back on the line: "Just a moment, sir. I'll put you on to an officer who may be able to help you."

James Bond, sitting on the edge of his bed, said, "Thank you."

He had expected some delay before he could establish his identity. He had been warned to expect it by the charming "Colonel Boris" who had been in charge of him for the past few months after he had finished his treatment in the luxurious Institute on the Nevsky Prospekt in Leningrad. A man's voice came on the line. "Captain Walker speaking Can I help you?"

James Bond spoke slowly and clearly, "This is Commander James Bond speaking Number 007. Would you put me through to M, or his secretary, Miss Moneypenny. I want to make an appointment."

Captain Walker pressed two buttons on the side of his telephone. One of them switched on a tape recorder for the use of his department, the other alerted one of the duty officers in the Action Room of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard drat he should listen to the conversation, trace the call, and at once put a tail on the caller. It was now up to Captain Walker, who was in fact an extremely bright ex-prisoner-of-war interrogator from Military Intelligence, to keep the subject talking for as near five minutes as possible. He said, "I'm afraid I don't know either of these two people. Are you sure you've got the right number?"

James Bond patiently repeated the Regent number which was the main outside line for the Secret Service. Together with so much else, he had forgotten it, but Colonel Boris had known it and had made him write it down among the small print on the front page of his forged British passport that said his name was Frank Westmacott, company director.

"Yes," said Captain Walker sympathetically. "We seem to have got that part of it right. But I'm afraid I can't place these people you want to talk to. Who exactly are they? This Mr. Emm, for instance. I don't think we've got anyone of that name at the Ministry."

"Do you want me to spell it out? You realize this is an open line?"

Captain Walker was rather impressed by the confidence in the speaker's voice. He pressed another button and, so that Bond would hear it, a telephone bell rang. He said, "Hang on a moment, would you? There's someone on my other line." Captain Walker got on to the head of his Section. "Sorry, sir. I've got a chap on who says he's James Bond and wants to talk to M. I know it sounds crazy and I've gone through the usual motions with the Special Branch, and so on, but would you mind listening for a minute? Thank you, sir."

Two rooms away a harassed man, who was the Chief Security Officer for the Secret Service, said "Blast!" and pressed a switch. A microphone on his desk came to life. The Chief Security Officer sat very still. He badly needed a cigarette, but his room was now "live" to Captain Walker and to the lunatic who called himself James Bond. Captain Walker's voice came over at full strength. "I'm so sorry. Now then. This man Mr. Emm you want to talk to. I'm sure we needn't worry about security. Could you be more specific?"

James Bond frowned. He didn't know that he had frowned and he wouldn't have been able to explain why he had done so. He said, and lowered his voice, again inexplicably, "Admiral Sir Miles Messervy. He is head of a department in your Ministry. The number of his room used to be twelve on the eighth floor. He used to have a secretary called Miss Moneypenny. Good-looking girl. Brunette. Shall I give you the Chief of Staff's name? No? Well let's see, it's Wednesday. Shall I tell you what'll be the main dish on the menu in the canteen? It should be steak-and-kidney pudding."

The Chief Security Officer picked up the direct telephone to Captain Walker. Captain Walker said to James Bond, "Damn! There's the other telephone again. Shan't be a minute." He picked up the green telephone. "Yes, sir?"

"I don't like that bit about the steak-and-kidney pudding. Pass him on to the Hard Man. No. Cancel that. Make it the Soft. There was always something odd about 007's death. No body. No solid evidence. And the people on that Japanese island always seemed to me to be playing it pretty close to the chest. The stone-face act. It's just possible. Keep me informed, would you?"

Captain Walker got back to James Bond. "Sorry about that. It's being a busy day. Now then, this inquiry of yours. Afraid I can't help you myself. Not my part of the Ministry. The man you want is Major Townsend. He should be able to locate this man you want to see. Got a pencil? It's number forty-four Kensington Cloisters. Got that? Kensington double five, double five. Give me ten minutes and I'll have a word with him and see if he can help. All right?"

James Bond said dully, "That's very kind of you." He put down the telephone. He waited exactly ten minutes and picked up the receiver and asked for the number.

James Bond was staying at the Ritz Hotel. Colonel Boris had told him to do so. Bond's file in the K.G.B. Archive described him as a high liver, so, on arrival in London, he must stick to the K.G.B. image of the high life. Bond went down in the lift to the Arlington Street entrance. A man at the newsstand got a good profile of him with a buttonhole Minox. When Bond went down the shallow steps to the street and asked the commissionaire for a taxi, a Canonflex with a telescopic lens clicked away busily from a Red Roses laundry van at the neighboring goods entrance and, in due course, the same van followed Bond's taxi while a man inside the van reported briefly to the Action Room of the Special Branch.

Number 44 Kensington Cloisters was a dull Victorian mansion in grimy red brick. It had been chosen for its purpose because it had once been the headquarters of the Empire League for Noise Abatement, and its entrance still bore the brass plate of this long-defunct organization, the empty shell of which had been purchased by the Secret Service through the Commonwealth Relations Office. It also had a spacious old-fashioned basement, re-equipped as detention cells, and a rear exit into a quiet mews.

The Red Roses laundry van watched the front door shut behind James Bond and then moved off at a sedate speed to its garage not far from Scotland Yard while the process of developing the Canonflex film went on in its interior.

"Appointment with Major Town-send," said Bond.

"Yes. He's expecting you, sir. Shall I take your raincoat?" The powerful-looking doorman put the coat on a coat hanger and hung it up on one of a row of hooks beside the door. As soon as Bond was safely closeted with Major Townsend, the coat would go swiftly to the laboratory on the first floor where its provenance would be established from an examination of the fabric. Pocket dust would be removed for more leisurely research. "Would you follow me, sir?"

It was a narrow corridor of freshly painted clapboard with a tall, single window which concealed the fluoroscope triggered automatically from beneath the ugly patterned carpet. The findings of its X-ray eye would be fed into the laboratory above the passage. The passage ended in two facing doors marked "A" and "B." The doorman knocked on room B and stood aside for Bond to enter.

It was a pleasant, very light room, close-carpeted in dove-gray Wilton. The military prints on the cream walls were expensively framed. A small, bright fire burned under an Adam mantelpiece which bore a number of silver trophies and two photographs in leather frames--one of a nice-looking woman and the other of three nice-looking children. There was a central table with a bowl of flowers and two comfortable club chairs on either side of the fire. No desk or filing cabinets, nothing official-looking. A tall man, as pleasant as the room, got up from the far chair, dropped The Times on the carpet beside it, and came forward with a welcoming smile. He held out a firm, dry hand.

This was the Soft Man.

"Come in. Come in. Take a pew. Cigarette? Not the ones I seem to remember you favor. Just the good old Senior Service."

Major Townsend had carefully prepared the loaded remark--a reference to Bond's liking for the Morland Specials with the three gold rings. He noted Bond's apparent lack of comprehension. Bond took a cigarette and accepted a light. They sat down facing each other. Major Townsend crossed his legs comfortably. Bond sat up straight. Major Townsend said, "Well, now. How can I help you?"

Across the corridor, in room A, a cold Office of Works cube with no furniture but a hissing gas fire, an ugly desk with two facing wooden chairs under the naked neon, Bond's reception by the Hard Man, the ex-police superintendent ("ex" because of a brutality case in Glasgow for which he had taken the rap) would have been very different. There, the man who went under the name of Mr. Robson would have given him the full intimidation treatment--harsh, bullying interrogation, threats of imprisonment for false representation and God knows what else, and, perhaps, if he had shown signs of hostility or developing a nuisance value, a little judicious rough-ing-up in the basement.

Such was the ultimate sieve which sorted out the wheat from the chaff from those members of the public who desired access to "The Secret Service." There were other people in the building who dealt with the letters. Those written in pencil or in multicolored inks, and those enclosing a photograph, remained unanswered. Those that threatened or were litigious were referred to the Special Branch. The solid, serious ones were passed, with a comment from the best graphologist in the business, to the Liaison Section at Headquarters for "further action." Parcels went automatically, and fast, to the Bomb Disposal Squad at Knightsbridge Barracks. The eye of the needle was narrow. On the whole, it discriminated appropriately. It was an expensive setup, but it is the first duty of a Secret Service to remain not only secret but secure.

There was no reason why James Bond, who had always been on the operative side of the business, should know anything about the entrails of the Service, any more than he should have understood the mysteries of the plumbing or electricity supply of his flat in Chelsea, or the working of his own kidneys. Colonel Boris, however, had known the whole routine. The secret services of all the great powers know the public face of their opponents, and Colonel Boris had very accurately described the treatment that James Bond must expect before he was "cleared" and was allowed access to the office of his former Chief.

So now James Bond paused before he replied to Major Townsend's question about how he could be of help. He looked at the Soft Man and then into the fire. He added up the accuracy of the description he had been given of Major Townsend's appearance and, before he said what he had been told to say, he gave Colonel Boris 90 out of 100. The big, friendly face, the wide-apart, pale-brown eyes, bracketed by the wrinkles of a million smiles, the military mustache, the rimless monocle dangling from a thin black cord, the brushed-back, thinning sandy hair, the immaculate double-breasted blue suit, stiff white collar and brigade tie--it was all there. But what Colonel Boris hadn't said was that the friendly eyes were as cold and steady as gun barrels and that the lips were thin and scholarly.

James Bond said patiently: "It's really quite simple. I'm who I say I am. I'm doing what I naturally would do, and that's report back to M."

"Quite. But you must realize" (a sympathetic smile) "that you've been out of contact for nearly a year. You've been officially posted as 'missing, believed killed.' Your obituary has even appeared in The Times. Have you any evidence of identity? I admit that you look very much like your photographs, but you must see that we have to be very sure before we pass you on up the ladder."

"A Miss Mary Goodnight was my secretary. She'd recognize me all right. So would dozens of other people at H.Q."

"Miss Goodnight's been posted abroad. Can you give me a brief description of H.Q., just the main geography?"

Bond did so.

"Right. Now, who was a Miss Maria Freudenstein?"

"Was?"

"Yes, she's dead."

"Thought she wouldn't last long. She was a double, working for K.G.B. Section One Hundred controlled her. I wouldn't get any thanks for telling you any more."

Major Townsend had been primed with this very top secret question. He had been given the answer, more or less as Bond had put it. This was the clincher. This had to be James Bond. "Well, we're getting on fine. Now, it only remains to find out where you've come from and where you've been all these months and I won't keep you any longer."

"Sorry. I can only tell that to M personally."

"I see." Major Townsend put on a thoughtful expression. "Well, just let me make a telephone call or two and I'll see what can be done." He got to his feet. "Seen today's Times?" He picked it up and handed it to Bond. It had been specially treated to give good prints. Bond took it. "Shan't be long."

Major Townsend shut the door behind him and went across the passage and through the door marked "A" where he knew that "Mr. Robson" would be alone. "Sorry to bother you, Fred. Can I use your scrambler?" The chunky man behind the desk grunted through the stem of his pipe and remained bent over the midday Evening Standard racing news.

Major Townsend picked up the green receiver and was put through to the Laboratory. "Major Townsend speaking. Any comment?" He listened carefully, said "Thank you," and got through to the Chief Security Officer at Headquarters. "Well, sir, I think it must be 007. Bit thinner than his photographs. I'll be giving you his prints as soon as he's gone. Wearing his usual rig--dark-blue single-breasted suit, white shirt, thin black knitted silk tie, black casuals--but they all look brand-new. Raincoat bought yesterday from Burberry's. Got the Freudenstein question right, but says he won't say anything about himself except to M personally. But whoever he is, I (continued overleaf) don't like it much. He fluffed on his special cigarettes. He's got an odd sort of glazed, sort of faraway look, and the scope shows that he's carrying a gun in his right-hand coat pocket--curious sort of contraption, doesn't seem to have got a butt to it. I'd say he's a sick man. I wouldn't personally recommend that M should see him, but I wouldn't know how we're to get him to talk unless he does." He paused. "Very good, sir. I'll stay by the telephone. I'm on Mr. Rob-son's extension."

There was silence in the room. The two men didn't get on well together. Major Townsend gazed into the gas fire, wondering about the man next door. The telephone burred. "Yes, sir? Very good, sir. Would your secretary send along a car from the pool? Thank you, sir."

Bond was sitting in the same upright posture, The Times still unopened in his hand. Major Townsend said cheerfully, "Well, that's fixed. Message from M that he's tremendously relieved you're all right and he'll be free in about half an hour. Car should be here in ten minutes or so. And the Chief of Staff says he hopes you'll be free for lunch afterward."

James Bond smiled for the first time. It was a thin smile that didn't light up his eyes. He said, "That's very kind of him. Would you tell him I'm afraid I shan't be free."

• • •

The Chief of Staff stood in front of M's desk and said firmly, "I really wouldn't do it, sir. I can see him, or someone else can. I don't like the smell of it at all. I think 007's round the bend. There's no doubt it's him all right. The prints have just been confirmed by Chief of Security. And the pictures are all right--and the recording of his voice. But there are too many things that don't add up. This forged passport we found in his room at the Ritz, for instance. All right. So he wanted to come back into the country quietly. But it's too good a job. Typical K.G.B. sample. And the last entry is West Germany, day before yesterday. Why didn't he report to Station B or W? Both those Heads of Station are friends of his, particularly 016 in Berlin. And why didn't he go and have a look at his flat? He's got some sort of a housekeeper there, Scots woman called May, who's always sworn he was still alive and has kept the place going on her savings. The Ritz is sort of 'stage' Bond. And these new clothes. Why did he have to bother? Doesn't matter what he was wearing when he came in through Dover. Normal thing, if he was in rags, would have been to give me a ring--he had my home number--and get me to fix him up. Have a few drinks and run over his story and then report here. Instead of that, we've got this typical penetration approach and Security worried as hell."

The Chief of Staff paused. He knew he wasn't getting through. As soon as he had begun, M had swiveled his chair sideways and had remained, occasionally sucking at an unlighted pipe, gazing moodily out through the window at the jagged sky line of London. Obstinately, the Chief of Staff concluded, "Do you think you could leave this one to me, sir? I can get hold of Sir James Molony in no time and have 007 put into The Park for observation and treatment. It'll all be done very gently. VIP handling, and so on. I can say you've been called to the Cabinet or something. Security says 007's looking a bit thin. Build him up. Convalescence, and all that. That can be the excuse. If he cuts up rough, we can always give him some dope. He's a good friend of mine. He won't hold it against us. He obviously needs to be got back in the groove--if we can do it, that is."

M slowly swiveled his chair round. He looked up at the tired, worried face that showed the strain of being the equivalent of Number Two in the Secret Service for ten years and more. M smiled. "Thank you, Chief of Staff. But I'm afraid it's not as easy as all that. I sent 007 out on his last job to shake him out of his domestic worries. You remember how it all came about. Well, we had no idea that what seemed a fairly peaceful mission was going to end up in a pitched battle with Blofeld. Or that 007 was going to vanish off the face of the earth for a year. Now we've got to know what happened during that year. And 007's quite right. I sent him out on that mission and he's got every right to report back to me personally. I know 007. He's a stubborn fellow. If he says he won't tell anyone else, he won't. Of course I want to hear what happened to him. You'll listen in. Have a couple of good men at hand. If he turns rough, come and get him. As for his gun"--M gestured vaguely at the ceiling--"I can look after that. Have you tested the damned thing?"

"Yes, sir. It works all right. But ... "

M held up a hand. "Sorry, Chief of Staff. It's an order." A light winked on the intercom. "That'll be him. Send him straight in, would you?"

"Very good, sir." The Chief of Staff went out and closed the door.

James Bond was standing smiling vaguely down at Miss Moneypenny. She looked distraught. When James Bond shifted his gaze and said "Hullo, Bill," he still wore the same distant smile. He didn't hold out his hand. Bill Tanner said, with a heartiness that rang with a terrible falsity in his ears, "Hullo, James. Long time no see." At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Moneypenny give a quick, emphatic shake of the head. He looked her straight in the eyes. "M would like to see 007 straightaway."

Miss Moneypenny lied desperately: "You know M's got a Chiefs of Staff meeting at the Cabinet Office in five minutes?"

"Yes. He says you must somehow get him out of it." The Chief of Staff turned to James Bond. "OK, James. Go ahead. Sorry you can't manage lunch. Come and have a gossip after M's finished with you."

Bond said, "That'll be fine." He squared his shoulders and walked through the door over which the red light was already burning.

Miss Moneypenny buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Bill!" she said desperately. "There's something wrong with him. I'm frightened."

Bill Tanner said, "Take it easy, Penny. I'm going to do what I can." He walked quickly into his office and shut the door. He went over to his desk and pressed a switch. M's voice came into the room: "Hullo, James. Wonderful to have you back. Take a seat and tell me all about it."

Bill Tanner picked up the office telephone and asked for Head of Security.

James Bond took his usual place across the desk from M. A storm of memories whirled through his consciousness like badly cut film on a projector that had gone crazy. Bond closed his mind to the storm. He must concentrate on what he had to say, and do, and on nothing else.

"I'm afraid there's a lot I still can't remember, sir. I got a bang on the head" (he touched his right temple) "somewhere along the line on that job you sent me to do in Japan. Then there's a blank until I got picked up by the police on the waterfront at Vladivostok. No idea how I got there. They roughed me up a bit and in the process I must have got another bang on the head, because suddenly I remembered who I was and that I wasn't a Japanese fisherman, which was what I thought I was. So then of course the police passed me on to the local branch of the K.G.B.--it's a big gray building on the Morskaya Ulitsa facing the harbor near the railway station, by the way--and when they belino-graphed my prints to Moscow there was a lot of excitement and they flew me there from the military airfield just north of the town at Vtoraya Rechka and spent weeks interrogating me--or trying to, rather, because I couldn't remember anything except when they prompted me with something they knew themselves and then I could give them a few hazy details to add to their knowledge. Very frustrating for them."

Very," commented M. A small frown had gathered between his eyes. "And you told them everything you could? Wasn't that rather, er, generous of you?"

(continued on page 161)

The Golden Gun(continued on page 70)

"They were very nice to me in every way, sir. It seemed the least I could do. There was this Institute place in Leningrad. They gave me VIP treatment. Top brain specialists and everything. They didn't seem to hold it against me that I'd been working against them for most of my life. And other people came and talked to me very reasonably about the political situation, and so forth. The need for East and West to work together for world peace. They made clear a lot of things that hadn't occurred to me before. They quite convinced me." Bond looked obstinately across the table into the clear blue sailor's eyes that now held a red spark of anger. "I don't suppose you understand what I mean, sir. You've been making war against someone or other all your life. You're doing so at this moment. And for most of my adult life you've used me as a tool. Fortunately, that's all over now."

M said fiercely, "It certainly is. I suppose among other things you've forgotten is reading reports of our POWs in the Korean War who were brainwashed by the Chinese. If the Russians are so keen on peace, what do they need the K.G.B. for? At the last estimate, that was about one hundred thousand men and women 'making war,' as you call it, against us and other countries. This is the organization that was so charming to you in Leningrad. Did they happen to mention the murder of Horcher and Stutz in Munich last month?"

"Oh yes, sir." Bond's voice was patient, equable. "They have to defend themselves against the secret services of the West. If you would demobilize all this," Bond waved a hand, "they would be only too delighted to scrap the K.G.B. They were quite open about it all."

"And the same thing applies to their two hundred divisions and their U-boat fleet and their ICBMs, I suppose?" M's voice rasped.

"Of course, sir."

"Well, if you found these people so reasonable and charming, why didn't you stay there? Others have. Burgess is dead, but you could have chummed up with Maclean."

"We thought it more important that I should come back and fight for peace here, sir. You and your agents have taught me certain skills for use in the underground war. It was explained to me how these skills could be used in the cause of peace."

James Bond's hand moved nonchalantly to his right-hand coat pocket. M, with equal casualness, shifted his chair back from his desk. His left hand felt for the button under the arm of the chair.

"For instance?" said M quietly, knowing that death had walked into the room and was standing beside him and that this was an invitation for death to take his place in the chair.

James Bond had become tense. There was a whiteness round his lips. The blue-gray eyes still stared blankly, almost unseeingly at M. The words rang out harshly, as if forced out of him by some inner compulsion. "It would be a start if the warmongers could be eliminated, sir. This is for number one on the list."

The hand, snub-nosed with black metal, flashed out of the pocket, but, even as the poison hissed clown the barrel of the bulb-butted pistol, the great sheet of armor-plate glass hurtled down from the baffled slit in the ceiling and, with a last sigh of hydraulics, braked to the floor. The jet of viscous brown fluid splashed harmlessly into its center and trickled slowly down, distorting M's face and the arm he had automatically thrown up for additional protection.

The Chief of Staff had burst into the room, followed by the Head of Security. They threw themselves on James Bond. Even as they seized his arms, his head fell forward on his chest and he would have slid from his chair to the floor if they hadn't supported him. They hauled him to his feet. He was in a dead faint. The Head of Security sniffed. "Cyanide," he said curtly. "We must all get out of here. And bloody quick!" (The emergency had snuffed out Headquarters "manners.") The pistol lay on the carpet where it had fallen. He kicked it away. He said to M, who had walked out from behind his glass shield, "Would you mind leaving the room, sir? Quickly. I'll have this cleaned up during the lunch hour." It was an order. M went to the open door. Miss Money penny stood with her clenched hand up to her mouth. She watched with horror as James Bond's supine body was hauled out and, the heels of his shoes leaving tracks on the carpet, taken into the Chief of Staff's room.

M said sharply, "Close that door, Miss Moneypenny. Get the duty M.O. up right away. Come along, girl! Don't just stand there gawking! And not a word of this to anyone. Understood?"

Miss Moneypenny pulled herself back from the edge of hysterics. She said an automatic "Yes, sir," pulled the door shut and reached for the interoffice telephone.

M walked across and into the Chief of Staff's office and closed the door. Head of Security was on his knees beside Bond. He had loosened his tie and collar button and was feeling his pulse. Bond's face was white and bathed in sweat. His breathing was a desperate rattle, as if he had just run a race. M looked briefly down at him and then, his face hidden from the others, at the wall beyond the body. He turned to the Chief of Staff. He said briskly, "Well, that's that. My predecessor died in that chair. Then it was a simple bullet, but from much the same sort of a crazed officer. One can't legislate against the lunatic. But the Office of Works certainly did a good job with that gadget. Now then, Chief of Staff. This is, of course, to go no further. Get Sir James Molony as soon as you can and have 007 taken down to The Park. Ambulance, surreptitious guard. I'll explain things to Sir James this afternoon. Briefly, as you heard, the K.G.B. got hold of him. Brainwashed him. He was already a sick man. Amnesia of some kind. I'll tell you all I know later. Have his things collected from the Ritz and his bill paid. And put some-thing out to the Press Association. Something on these lines: 'The Ministry of Defense is pleased,' no, say delighted, 'to announce that Commander James Bond, etc., who was posted as missing, believed killed while on a mission to Japan last November, has returned to this country after a hazardous journey across the Soviet Union which is expected to yield much valuable information. Commander Bond's health has inevitably suffered from his experiences and he is convalescing under medical supervision.'" M smiled frostily. "That bit about information'll give no joy to Comrade Semichastny and his troops. And add a 'D' Notice to editors: 'It is particularly requested, for security reasons, that the minimum of speculation or comment be added to the above communiqué and that no attempts be made to trace Commander Bond's whereabouts.' All right?"

Bill Tanner had been writing furiously to keep up with M. He looked up from his scratch-pad, bewildered. "But aren't you going to make any charges, sir? After all, treason and attempted murder ... I mean, not even a court martial?"

"Certainly not." M's voice was gruff. "007 was a sick man. Not responsible for his actions. If one can brainwash a man, presumably one can unbrainwash him. If anyone can, Sir James can. Put him back on half pay for the time being, in his old Section. And see he gets full back pay and allowances for the past year. If the K.G.B. has the nerve to throw one of my best men at me, I have the nerve to throw him back at them. 007 was a good agent once. There's no reason why he shouldn't be a good agent again. Within limits, that is. After lunch, give me the file on Scaramanga. If we can get him fit again, that's the right-sized target for 007."

The Chief of Staff protested, "But that's suicide, sir! Even 007 could never take him."

M said coldly, "What would 007 get for this morning's bit of work? Twenty years? As a minimum, I'd say. Better for him to fall on the battlefield. If he brings it off, he'll have won his spurs back again and we can all forget the past. Anyway, that's my decision."

There was a knock on the door and the duty Medical Officer came into the room. M bade him good afternoon and turned stiffly on his heel and walked out through the open door.

The Chief of Staff looked at the retreating back. He said, under his breath, "You coldhearted bastard!" Then, with his usual minute thoroughness and sense of duty, he set about the tasks he had been given. His not to reason why!

• • •

At Blades, M ate his usual meager luncheon--a grilled Dover sole followed by the ripest spoonful he could gouge from the club stilton. And as usual he sat by himself in one of the window seats and barricaded himself behind The Times, occasionally turning a page to demonstrate that he was reading it, which, in fact, he wasn't. But Porterfield commented to the head waitress, Lily, a handsome, much-loved ornament of the club, that "there's something wrong with the old man today. Or maybe not exactly wrong, but there's something up with him." Porterfield prided himself on being something of an amateur psychologist. As headwaiter, and father-confessor to many of the members, he knew a lot about all of them and liked to think he knew everything, so that, in the tradition of incomparable servants, he could anticipate their wishes and their moods. Now, standing with Lily in a quiet moment behind the finest cold buffet on display at that date anywhere in the world, he explained himself. "You know that terrible stuff Sir Miles always drinks? That Algerian red wine that the wine committee won't even allow on the wine list. They only have it in the club to please Sir Miles. Well, he explained to me once that in the navy they used to call it 'The Infuriator,' because if you drank too much of it, it seems that it used to put you into a rage. Well now, in the ten years that I've had the pleasure of looking after Sir Miles, he's never ordered more than half a carafe of the stuff." Porterfield's benign, almost priestly countenance assumed an expression of theatrical solemnity as if he had read something really terrible in the tea leaves. "Then what happens today?" Lily clasped her hands tensely and bent her head fractionally closer to get the full impact of the news. "The old man says, 'Porterfield. A bottle of Infuriator. You understand? A full bottle!' So of course I didn't say anything but went off and brought it to him. But you mark my words, Lily," he noticed a lifted hand down the long room and moved off, "there's something hit Sir Miles hard this morning and no mistake."

M sent for his bill. As usual, he paid, whatever the amount of the bill, with a five-pound note for the pleasure of receiving in change crisp new pound notes, new silver and gleaming copper pennies, for it is the custom at Blades to give its members only freshly minted money. Porterfield pulled back his table and M walked quickly to the door, acknowledging the occasional greeting with a preoccupied nod and a brief lifting of the hand. It was two o'clock. The old black Phantom Rolls took him quietly and quickly northward through Berkeley Square, across Oxford Street and via Wigmore Street into Regent's

Park. M didn't look out at the passing scene. He sat stiffly in the back, his bowler set squarely on his head, and gazed unseeing at the back of the chauffeur's head with hooded, brooding eyes.

For the hundredth time since he had left his office that morning, he assured himself that his decision was right. If James Bond could be straightened out, and M was certain that that supreme neurologist, Sir James Molony, could bring it off, it would be ridiculous to reassign him to normal staff duties in the Double-O Section. The past could be forgiven, but not forgotten--except with the passage of time. It would be most irksome for those in the know to have Bond moving about Headquarters as if nothing had happened. It would be doubly embarrassing for M to have to face Bond across that desk. And James Bond, if aimed straight at a known target--M put it in the language of battleships-- was a supremely effective firingpiece. Well, the target was there and it desperately demanded destruction. Bond had accused M of using him as a tool. Naturally. Every officer in the Service was a tool for one secret purpose or another. The problem on hand could only be solved by a killing. James Bond would not possess the Double-O prefix if he had not high talents, frequently proved, as a gunman. So be it! In exchange for the happenings of that morning, in expiation of them, Bond must prove himself at his old skills. If he succeeded, he would have regained his previous status. If he failed, well, it would be a death for which he would be honored. Win or lose, the plan would solve a vast array of problems. M closed his mind once and for all on his decision. He got out of the car and went up in the lift to the eighth floor and along the corridor, smelling the smell of some unknown disinfectant more and more powerfully as he approached his office.

Instead of using his key to the private entrance at the end of the corridor, M turned right through Miss Moneypenny's door. She was sitting in her usual place, typing away at the usual routine correspondence. She got to her feet.

"What's this dreadful stink, Miss Moneypenny?"

"I don't know what it's called, sir. Head of Security brought along a squad from Chemical Warfare at the War Office. He says your office is all right to use again, but to keep the windows open for a while. So I've turned on the heating. Chief of Staff isn't back from lunch yet, but he told me to tell you that everything you wanted done is under way. Sir James is operating until four, but will expect your call after that. Here's the file you wanted, sir."

M took the brown folder with the red Top Secret star in its top right-hand corner. "How's 007? Did he come round?"

Miss Moneypenny's face was expressionless. "I gather so, sir. The M.O. gave him a sedative of some kind and he was taken off on a stretcher during the lunch hour. He was covered up. They took him down in the service lift to the garage. I haven't had any inquiries."

"Good. Well, bring me in the signals, would you. There's been a lot of time wasted today on all these domestic excitements." Bearing the file, M went through the door into his office. Miss Money penny brought in the signals and stood dutifully beside him while he went through them, occasionally dictating a comment or a query. She looked down at the bowed, iron-gray head with the bald patch polished for years by a succession of naval caps and wondered, as she had wondered so often over the past ten years, whether she loved or hated this man. One thing was certain. She respected him more than any man she had known or had read of.

M handed her the file. "Thank you. Now just give me a quarter of an hour, and then I'll see whoever wants me. The call to Sir James has priority, of course."

M opened the brown folder, reached for his pipe and began absent-mindedly filling it as he glanced through the list of subsidiary files to see if there was any other docket he immediately needed. Then he set a match to his pipe and settled back in his chair and read:

"Francisco (PACO) 'Pistols' Scaramanga." And underneath, in lower-case type, "free-lance assassin mainly under K.G.B. control through D.S.S., Havana, Cuba, but often as an independent operator for other organizations, in the Caribbean and Central American states. Has caused widespread damage, particularly to the SS, but also to CIA and other friendly services, by murder and scientific maiming, since 1959, the year when Castro came to power and which seems also to have been the trigger for Scaramanga's operations. Is widely feared and admired in said territory throughout which he appears, despite police precautions, to have complete freedom of access. Has thus become something of a local myth and is known in his 'territory' as 'The Man with the Golden Gun'--a reference to his main weapon, which is a gold-plated, long-barreled, single-action Colt .45. He uses special bullets with a heavy, soft (24k) gold core jacketed with silver and crosscut at the tip, on the dumdum principle, for maximum wounding effect. Himself loads and artifices this ammunition. Is responsible for the death of 267 (British Guiana), 398 (Trinidad), 943 (Jamaica) and 768 and 742 (Havana) and for the maiming and subsequent retirement from the SS of 098, Area Inspection Officer, by bullet wounds in both knees. (See above references in Central Records for Scaramanga's victims in Martinique, Haiti and Panama.)

"Description: Age about 35. Height 6 ft., 3 in. Slim and fit. Eyes, light brown. Hair reddish in a crewcut. Long sideburns. Gaunt, somber face with thin 'pencil' mustache, brownish. Ears very flat to the head. Ambidextrous. Hands very large and powerful and immaculately manicured. Distinguishing marks: a third nipple about two inches below his left breast. (N.B. In voodoo and allied local cults this is considered a sign of invulnerability and great sexual prowess.) Is an insatiable but indiscriminate womanizer who invariably has sexual intercourse shortly before a killing in the belief that it improves his 'eye.' (N.B. A belief shared by many professional lawn-tennis players, golfers, gun and rifle marksmen and others.)

"Origins: A relative of the Catalan family of circus managers of the same name with whom he spent his youth. Self-educated. At the age of 16, after the incident described below, emigrated illegally to the United States where he lived a life of petty crime on the fringes of the gangs until he graduated as a full-time gunman for the 'Spangled Mob' in Nevada with the cover of pitboy in the casino of the Tiara Hotel in Las Vegas, where in fact he acted as executioner of cheats and other transgressors within and outside 'The Mob.' In 1958 was forced to flee the States as the result of a famous duel against his opposite number for the Detroit Purple Gang, a certain Ramon 'The Rod' Rodriguez, which took place by moonlight on the third green of the Thunderbird golf course at Las Vegas. (Scaramanga got two bullets into the heart of his opponent before the latter had fired a shot. Distance 20 paces.) Believed to have been compensated by The Mob' with $100,000. Traveled the whole Caribbean area investing fugitive funds for various Las Vegas interests and later, as his reputation for keen and successful dealing in real estate and plantations became consolidated, for Trujillo of the Dominican Republic and Batista of Cuba. In 1959 settled in Havana and, seeing the way the wind blew, while remaining ostensibly a Batista man, began working undercover for the Castro party and, after the revolution, obtained an influential post as foreign 'enforcer' for the D.S.S. In this capacity, on behalf, that is, of the Cuban Secret Police, he undertook the assassinations mentioned above.

"Passports: Various, including Cuban diplomatic.

"Disguises: None. They are not necessary. The myth surrounding this man, the equivalent, let us say, of that surrounding the most famous film star, and the fact that he has no police record, have hitherto given him complete freedom of movement and indemnity from interference in 'his' territory. In most of the islands and mainland republics which constitute this territory, he has groups of admirers (cf. the Rastafari in Jamaica) and commands powerful pressure groups who give him protection and succor when called upon to do so. Moreover, as the ostensible purchaser, and usually the legal front, for the 'hot money' properties mentioned above, he has legitimate access, frequently supported by his diplomatic status, to any part of his territory.

"Resources: Considerable, but of unknown extent. Travels on various credit cards of the Diners' Club variety. Has a numbered account with the Union des Banques de Crédit, Zurich, and appears to have no difficulty in obtaining foreign currency from the slim resources of Cuba when he needs it.

"Motivation: (Comment by C.C.)--" M refilled and relit his pipe, which had died. What had gone before was routine information which added nothing to his basic knowledge of the man. What followed would be of more interest. "C.C." covered the identity of a former Regius Professor of History at Oxford who lived a--to M--pampered existence at Headquarters in a small and, in M's opinion, overcomfortable office. In between, again in M's opinion, overluxurious and overlong meals at the Garrick Club, he wandered, at his ease, into Headquarters, examined such files as the present one, asked questions and had signals of inquiry sent, and then delivered his judgment. But M, for all his prejudices against the man--his haircut, the casual-ness of his clothes, what he knew of his way of life, and the apparently haphaz-5 ard processes of his ratiocination--appreciated the sharpness of the mind, the knowledge of the world, that C.C. brought to his task and, so often, the accuracy of his judgments. In short, M always enjoyed what C.C. had to say and he picked up the file again with relish.

"I am interested in this man," wrote C.C, "and I have caused inquiries to be made on a somewhat wider front than usual, since it is not common to be confronted with a secret agent who is at once so much of a public figure and yet appears to be infinitely successful in the difficult and dangerous field of his choice--that of being, in common parlance, 'a gun for hire.' I mink I may have found the origin of this partiality for killing his fellow men in cold blood, men against whom he has no personal animosity but merely the reflected animosity of his employers, in the following bizarre anecdote from his youth. In the traveling circus of his father, Enrico Scaramanga, the boy had several roles. He was a most spectacular trick shot, he was a stand-in strong man in the acrobatic troupe, often taking the place of the usual artiste as bottom man in the 'human pyramid' act, and he was the mahout, in gorgeous turban, Indian robes, etc., who rode the leading elephant in a troupe of three. This elephant, by the name of Max, was a male and it is a peculiarity of the male elephant, which I have learned with much interest and verified with eminent zoologists, that, at intervals during the year, they go 'on heat' sexually. During these periods, a mucous deposit forms behind the animals' ears and this needs to be scraped off, since otherwise it causes the elephant intense irritation. Max developed this symptom during a visit of the circus to Trieste, but, through an oversight, the condition was not noticed and given the necessary treatment. The 'Big Top' of the circus had been erected on the outskirts of the town adjacent to the coastal railway line and, on the night which was, in my opinion, to determine the future way of life of the young Scaramanga, Max went berserk, threw the youth and, screaming horrifically, trampled his way through the auditorium, causing many casualties, and charged off across the fairground and on to the railway line down which (a frightening spectacle under the full moon which, as newspaper cuttings record, was shining on that night) he galloped at full speed. The local carabinièri were alerted and set off in pursuit by car along the main road that flanks the railway line. In due course they caught up with the unfortunate monster, which, its frenzy expired, stood peacefully facing back the way it had come. Not realizing that the elephant, if approached by its handler, could now be led peacefully back to its stall, the police opened rapid fire and bullets from their carbines and revolvers wounded the animal in many places. Infuriated afresh, the miserable beast, now pursued by the police car from which the hail of fire continued, charged off again along the railway line. On arrival at the fairground, the elephant seemed to recognize its 'home,' the 'Big Top,' and, turning off the railway line, lumbered back through the fleeing spectators to the center of the deserted arena and there, weakened by loss of blood, pathetically continued with its interrupted act. Trumpeting dreadfully in its agony, the mortally wounded Max endeavored again and again to raise itself and stand upon one leg. Meanwhile, the young Scaramanga, now armed with his pistols, tried to throw a lariat over the animal's head while calling out the 'elephant talk' with which he usually controlled it. Max seems to have recognized the youth and--it must have been a truly pitiful sight--lowered its trunk to allow the youth to be hoist to his usual seat behind the elephant's head. But at this moment the police burst into the sawdust ring and their captain, approaching very close, emptied his revolver into the elephant's right eye at a range of a few feet, upon which Max fell dying to the ground. Upon this, the young Scaramanga who, according to the Press, had a deep devotion for his charge, drew one of his pistols and shot the policeman through the heart and fled off into the crowd of bystanders pursued by the other policemen, who could not fire because of the throng of people. He made good his escape, found his way south to Naples and thence, as noted above, stowed away to America.

"Now, I see in this dreadful experience, a possible reason for the transformation of Scaramanga into the most vicious gunman of recent years. In him was, I believe, born on that day a coldblooded desire to avenge himself on all humanity. That the elephant had run amuck and trampled many innocent people, that the man truly responsible was his handler and that the police were only doing their duty, would be, psycho-pathologically, either forgotten or deliberately suppressed by a youth of hot-blooded stock, whose subconscious had been so deeply lacerated. At all events, Scaramanga's subsequent career requires some explanation, and I trust I am not being fanciful in offering my own prognosis from the known facts."

M rubbed the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully against his nose. Well, fair enough! He turned back to the file.

"I have comment," wrote C.C., "to make on this man's alleged sexual potency when seen in relation to his profession. It is a Freudian thesis, with which I am inclined to agree, that the pistol, whether in the hands of an amateur or of a professional gunman, has significance for the owner as a symbol of virility--an extension of the male organ --and that excessive interest in guns (e.g., gun collections and gun clubs) is a form of fetishism. The partiality of Scaramanga for a particularly showy variation of weapon, and his use of silver and gold bullets, clearly point, I think, to his being a slave to this fetish and, if I am right, I have doubts about his alleged sexual prowess, for the lack of which his gun fetish would be either a substitute or a compensation. I have also noted, from a 'profile' of this man in Time magazine, one fact which supports my thesis that Scaramanga may be sexually abnormal. In listing his accomplishments, Time notes, but does not comment upon, the fact that this man cannot whistle. Now it may only be myth, and it is certainly not medical science, but there is a popular theory that a man who cannot whistle has homosexual tendencies. (At this point, the reader may care to experiment and, from his self-knowledge, help to prove or disprove this item of folklore! C.C.)" (M hadn't whistled since he was a boy. Unconsciously his mouth pursed and a clear note was emitted. He uttered an impatient "Tchah!" and continued with his reading.) "So I would not be surprised to learn that Scaramanga is not the Casanova of popular fancy. Passing to the wider implications of gunmanship, we enter the realms of the Adlerian power urge as compensation for the inferiority complex, and here I will quote some well-turned phrases of a certain Mr. Harold L. Peterson in his preface to his finely illustrated The Book of the Gun, published by Paul Hamlyn. Mr. Peterson writes: 'In the vast array of things man has invented to better his condition, few have fascinated him more than the gun. Its function is simple; as Oliver Winchester said, with 19th Century complacency, "A gun is a machine for throwing balls." But its ever-increasing efficiency in performing this task, and its awesome ability to strike home from long range, have given it tremendous psychological appeal.

" 'For possession of a gun and the skill to use it enormously augments the gunner's personal power, and extends the radius of his influence and effect a thousand times beyond his arm's length. And since strength resides in the gun, the man who wields it may be less than strong without being disadvantaged. The flashing sword, the couched lance, the bent longbow performed to the limit of the man who held it. The gun's power is inherent and needs only to be released. A steady eye and an accurate aim are enough. Wherever the muzzle points the bullet goes, bearing the gunner's wish or intention swiftly to the target ... Perhaps more than any other implement, the gun has shaped the course of nations and the destiny of men.'

C.C. commented: "In the Freudian thesis, 'his arm's length' would become the length of the masculine organ. But we need not linger over these esoterica. The support for my premise is well expressed in Mr. Peterson's sinewy prose and, though I would substitute the printing press for the gun in his concluding paragraph, his points are well taken. The subject, Scaramanga, is, in my opinion, a paranoiac in subconscious revolt against the father figure (i.e., the figure of authority) and a sexual fetishist with possible homosexual tendencies. He has other qualities that are self-evident from the earlier testimony. In conclusion, and having regard to the damage he has already wrought upon the personnel of the SS, I conclude that his career should be terminated with the utmost dispatch--if necessary, by the means he himself employs, in the unlikely event an agent of equal courage and dexterity can be made available." Signed "C.C."

Beneath, at the end of the docket, the Head of the Caribbean and Central American Section had minuted "I concur," signed "C.A.," and the Chief of Staff had added, in red ink, "Noted. C.O.S."

M gazed into space for perhaps five minutes. Then he reached for his pen and, in green ink, scrawled the word "Action?" followed by the authoritative "M."

Then he sat very still for another five minutes and wondered if he had signed James Bond's death warrant.

This is the first installment of Inn Fleming's final James Bond novel, "The Man with the Golden Gun." Part 11 will appear next month.